


They Were Formative

by circopoi (cicadabug), nicpic



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, POV Jean, Post-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, apologies for any inaccuracies in the portrayal of mental health, jeangst, mature rating for suicidal ideation, pre-mart harry is a piece of shit, this man needs a goddamn nap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:21:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27494902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadabug/pseuds/circopoi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicpic/pseuds/nicpic
Summary: God fuck. You *can’t.* You have to go. Out of the desolation seeping through stained floors, deep dark gunmetal aura crawling from under the bedroom door. In the bathroom cabinet, tiny pale bullets packaged for oral consumption. Out the window, a lethal drop from the balcony to the damp pavement. Leave this place before it swallows you.You flee with nothing but the clothes on your back: a refugee of the uncaring sky, swirling and silent and of distant astral stone.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois & Jean Vicquemare
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	They Were Formative

**Author's Note:**

> There's a reference to our other fic, Damage (https://archiveofourown.org/works/27098218/chapters/66169018), in this one, but you don't need to read it to understand it. Just adds some context!

Inside orange bottles, underneath white labels, are little capsules of packaged duality: salvation and oblivion in one chemical shot. Cold, secular compounds that, on good days, keep your brain from dissolving into primordial goop; on bad days, they expedite the process. 

You slam the medicine cabinet shut, glass front wobbling at the force. You gasp, hot breath clouding the mirror, as you hunch over the filthy white porcelain sink and try to suppress the wave of bile clawing its way up your throat. Your razor shines bright from its position on the sink. Maggots of desire wriggle behind your eyes; you knock the blade to the floor. It skitters to a stop by the toilet.

God, just— just fucking *breathe.* You heave. A drop of spittle rolls down the corner of your lips; you wipe it away, hand shaking uncontrollably. You turn the cold water on to max. Cup your hands, watch water splash into the fleshy basin, slam it into your face, let it burn and numb the epidermis. 

Your hands remain raised, gripping desperately at the mangled skin there. You take a shuddering breath and look up into your own puddled eyes, ice cold droplets melting off your chin. Tendons ripple across knuckles stretched white, a vein pulsing in the wrist. Like quicksilver, your gaze slips off the two ghostly white rings around your thumb and pinky. Even now, in this state, the basal urge to protect yourself from them remains intact.

The gun is by the bed. You stumble out the bathroom, stare at the closed bedroom door. You can’t. You can’t. You have to—

Would he even let you in? By the time you arrive, it’ll be an hour past midnight. The shitkid sleeps at two, latest. 

God fuck. You *can’t.* You have to go. Out of the desolation seeping through stained floors, deep dark gunmetal aura crawling from under the bedroom door. In the bathroom cabinet, tiny pale bullets packaged for oral consumption. Out the window, a lethal drop from the balcony to the damp pavement. Leave this place before it swallows you.

You flee with nothing but the clothes on your back: a refugee of the uncaring sky, swirling and silent and of distant astral stone.

. . .

The ratty plywood door stands imposingly in front of you. Water drips off you, stealing with it the vestiges of your body warmth. Stare. You don’t have your spare key anymore. It’s Harry’s now; he probably doesn’t know it was yours, before. Nothing to do but knock. 

Three tentative thumps. You wait. There isn’t an answer. You raise your fist again.

What do you think you’re doing, you fucking idiot? He’s not your partner any—

The door opens. You manage to stop yourself from punching the shitkid in the face. A moment. Harry squints, scratching at a beard clean but ruffled from sleep. He rubs his eyes, then finally recognizes you. He does a double-take, looking you up and down. “...Jean?”

What the fuck are you supposed to say? Yeah, shitkid, it’s Jean, here at one in the fucking morning soaked through because I was gonna blow my fucking brains out. We used to do this before, totally fucking normal. Just gonna crash the goddamn night. You open your mouth and nothing comes out except the chattering of your teeth. You can’t even look him in the eyes; that’s how pathetic this situation is. 

“Come in,” he offers hurriedly. “It’s cold out. You’re wet.” He steps aside to let you in. You enter silently.

“Um,” he begins. “Okay, uh, wait here a moment.” He rushes down a hallway. You gaze at the apartment. It’s so clean—nary an empty bottle on the floor. Where takeout containers once reigned, each box a flying buttress or load bearing pillar within its castle on the kitchenette counter, there is nothing but a newly-purchased rack of bananas. Otherwise, the countertop is clear and looks to have been wiped down fairly recently. A pack of Astras sits on a table. Kitsuragi’s work, then. Of fucking course.

You approach the couch in the corner. Worn, thick, woven green fabric. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

You’re still dripping into the threadbare carpet below. As you consider your next move, Harry bursts back into the living room, a pile of towels in his arms, some ratty and familiar, some soft and new. His eyes roam around until they land on you, then brighten. He rushes to your side, then drops the pile on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He takes one of the larger, fluffier ones and approaches to wrap it around you.

The motion snags a trip-wire in your head and you jolt away from him, breath catching in your throat. 

He hesitates. “Shit, sorry. Uh, is it okay if I…” He makes amorphous motions with the towel in his grasp.

“No.” It comes out as a whisper.

“You sure? You’re dripping wet and—”

“Leave me the hell alone.”

Though he tries to conceal it, the look in his eyes pierces you somewhere deep and unprotected. “Alright, well, I’ll leave the towels here. There’s some dry clothes I think’ll fit you. I’ll find them.” He gingerly drops the towel to your side. “...Call for me if you need anything.” 

As he leaves, you shiver, not processing, not comprehending the hows and whys of your warm surroundings smelling of smokey musk and the spores of spring mould. Rainwater from your legs pools into the carpeting underneath your feet, leaving circles of dark brown. The pile of towels sits there, on the couch, simultaneously three feet from you and an ocean away. 

Shaking, you grab at the fluffy one on the top, taking care not to topple the rest of them onto the floor. But you’ve got the grace and agility of a newborn calf and your jittery arm does exactly that, spilling them across your feet, out of reach.

For a long while, you simply drip into the carpet, staring at the fallen towels, your bones freezing slowly despite the warmth of the room. Light dims around you. If you sat down, would you be able to dry yourself before passing out? When’s the last time you ate? Drank something beside alcohol? Why are you still alive? You don’t remember the answers to most of these questions, but as you take awareness of the trembling wet mass that is yourself, you understand that you’re a man with an expiry date you can’t postpone any longer. Not without help.

“Harry.” The two syllables seem so quiet, even in the silence of the living room. You doubt he heard. It’s not that you need help with basic tasks—well, you won’t delude yourself. Maybe it is. But he’s on the other side of a few layers of drywall, and you’re here, and while that wall separates the two of you, you are startlingly, achingly alone. The sofa isn’t the reason you came. “Harry?” you ask, louder, cringing at the break in your voice. 

Not even a second passes before he slams open the door. His wary gaze traces the overturned pile of towels and then your hunched-over form, still soaked and dripping, and you have to avert your eyes again, else you risk shattering under his pitying expression. He picks up the towels again, sets them on the couch, shakes out a large one and holds it out.

“Go the fuck ahead,” you murmur, and he drapes it onto your shoulders. The weight of it anchors you to the ground. 

He gently pushes you onto the sofa. Your legs buckle weakly beneath you; you fall into the soft cushions, a familiar static enveloping your mind. In between the darker periods of your partnership, he treated you with softness like this. The first time blindsided you, the second gave you hope, but it took you three attempts to realize it was all illusory. He didn’t actually care. So what’s this, now? What reason does he have to do this for you? He takes a couple more towels and swathes you within them, then takes a smaller one and holds it up. “Could you turn the other way?”

To what? You comply, anyways. You feel the terry cloth envelop your head, then two large warm hands begin pressing into the sides, massaging your scalp. He’s— he’s drying your goddamn hair. What in the fucking goddamn—

“Jean?” He appears at the edge of your vision, hands still on you. “Am I pressing too hard?”

You mutely shake your head. He nods in relief. Continues his task. This can’t be happening. If it is, there has to be something else to it. Maybe he’s high? Maybe he’s racking up some favors. This isn’t— you expected annoyance. Questions. Not whatever the fuck this is. Despite your confusion, you let your eyes close and indulge in the feeling of another’s hands on you. It’s nice. You don’t know how long it’s been.

“Done,” he announces. “I would offer the shower, but I’m all out of hot water.”

“That’s fine,” you say. He perks up at your voice, waits for more. You don’t give it to him.

He gropes past you to a scarlet afghan draped on the side of the sofa. It’s yours; you left it here years ago when you had wrapped it around the shitkid and drove him home after he fell into a frozen lake. Idiot. Forgotten about it now.

“You can use this. It’s really warm.” He stands. “Lemme go get those clothes.” He runs off again and comes back with a soft, wooly grey sweater and navy sweatpants. They’re *your* clothes. “The sweater doesn’t fit me, but I think they’d do fine for you.” You stare at it. His smile falters. “Do you need me to help you?”

You attempt to peel off the dripping wet cotton sticking to your torso. Fatigue weighs on you and it’s slow going, but you manage to throw the shirt off with a grunt. He pushes the sweatshirt over your head and you manage to fit the correct limbs in the correct holes, with a little guidance from Harry. 

Your heart pounds dully in your ears. God, you’re exhausted. You push off the slacks, heavy with water, and they slosh onto the floor. Harry looks the other way as you wearily pat yourself dry and attempt to pull on the warm sweatpants. You can’t get it over your hips while sitting on the couch. You try to squirm into it to no avail; you can’t stand, your legs refuse to do anything but shudder.

Frustration stabs hotly in your stomach. You grit your teeth, push your pride down and away. “Harry.”

He looks back. His eyes soften when he sees your predicament. “Here.” He grips the elastic waistband of the pants and hauls you up. With a soft thump, you’re settled back on the sofa, fully clothed. He picks up the wet towels and sets them aside, then makes sure you’re enveloped in the afghan. It smells faintly of Astras, now, instead of your smoke. You try to ignore it and the sinking feeling it provokes. 

“Do you want something to eat? I’ve got some soup.”

You weigh your options. Eating means time for Harry to ask his questions. It also means you might stop feeling like absolute fucking shit. “Okay,” you murmur. He stands to go to the kitchenette. The sound of a cabinet opening, the metallic clank of a can opener, then the flick of the stovetop; chicken broth simmers, the smell wafting in your direction. The cushions of the sofa cradle you. Your head tilts back and you watch the peeling ceiling and think of nothing.

You open your eyes with a start. Harry hovers over you, holding a steaming bowl and a spoon. He’s nudging you with a knee. You blink rapidly, trying to dispel the fog from your mind. When the hell did you fall asleep? You look around; the towels and your wet clothes are gone. Two more blankets and a pillow have been added to the couch.

He sets the food down on the coffee table. Waves a hand towards them, beckoning. “Dinner’s ready.” It smells absolutely divine, even if it’s shitty canned chicken noodle soup. You extend a shaking arm and grasp at the spoon. It falls off the table; Harry catches it before it hits the floor. Helplessness wells up in you, bitter and corrosive. 

He wordlessly sits on the edge of the couch. Picks up the bowl with his left, then spoons up some of the broth. Holds the metal utensil to your lips. Oh fuck no.

You growl: an indistinct vowel sound. You turn your chin the other way and attempt to grasp at the spoon, brow furrowing in concentration. You succeed; Harry relinquishes the spoon to you, and you sit yourself up. “Give me the bowl.” He obeys, only hesitating a moment.

The broth is thin and warm in your mouth—it’s not heavy at all, but your stomach churns with nausea. You sip at it, scrape at the uppermost layer of the soup, blowing on it to let it cool before you bring it to your mouth. The tremors in your fingers lessen with each spoonful. Harry fidgets at the proximity, stands, and plops his ass on the coffee table. 

“So… “ he says. Great. An awkward attempt at small talk is exactly what you need right now. You glare at him, but he continues, unabashed. “You’ve done this before.” You set the empty bowl and spoon down.

You groan. Straight to the fucking point, huh? It’s human can-opener o’clock — first the soup, now you. “Brilliant deduction skills. Ever consider becoming a detective?”

“Sometimes.” An easy grin lights up his face. “But I’m not lawman material. I mean, look at me.” 

That might’ve been true anytime before a month ago, when he wore passé disco pants two sizes too small and reeked of stale ethanol, but the man that sits in front of you is clean, with a quiet air of self-assuredness. Neat, trimmed beard; a liveliness in his complexion. He would look like lawman material, of the roguish Byronic type… if not for the stupid fucking yellow pants, even if at least now, they fit. They’re still an insult to all living creatures with the ability to see. 

You snort. “If you’re not lawman material, what does that make me, then?” The vertigo of that line sweeps you a second after you say it.

“That’s supposed to be my line, isn’t it?” He tilts his head. God, you wish he were dumber. 

“Yeah, no shit. How the tables have turned, et cetera, et cetera.” You settle back in the cushions. “This place… I thought it’d stay a pigsty forever.” Your apartment is dirtier than his, now.

“It still technically is.” He waits for you to laugh, or snort dryly, or grimace, but you might as well be a tree stump right now. “I mean, by definition. I’m a cop and I’m still, like, liv—”

“I fucking *get* it.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry. Uh, so. Yeah. Kim and I threw everything bad away.” Then why are the pants still here? “I think I’ve decided to adopt a monastic lifestyle now. You know, demanifest my connection to material goods.” 

“Bold words for someone with pants like that,” you scoff. “Samaran children bled to make those stupid pants.”

“What?” The shock on his face is genuine; he looks down at the garish yellow fabric on his lap as if it betrayed him. 

You put the spoon down just to drag your hand over your face. “Harry, you can’t be—did you forget that your whole… disco thing… is *ironic?*”

“It doesn’t *feel* ironic. I think I actually enjoyed this stuff. It was completely genuine. What, did I tell you it was ironic?”

“Oh, God. You have to be kidding me.” 

“Sorry.” He leans his forearms on his knees, an entirely unrepentant smile on his face. “Anyway, yeah. We pawned off pretty much everything and tossed what we couldn’t. It’s good for me, I think. A symbolic action. Also I needed cash.”

Time to ask your own questions. “Then why’d you keep this shit?” You pinch the front of your sweatshirt. “It doesn’t fit you.” 

His eyes dart upwards, in concentration. “Hm… It felt…” Harry pauses and strokes his beard. “You ever see a kid with a really old, really nasty stuffed animal? Like, it’s got mold all over it and the ear’s coming off and it smells like piss—”

“Get to the point.”

“Sorry, yeah. But you know that that moldy plush animal is probably really… I don’t know, *formative* to the kid. It’s in her childhood memories. It’s nasty but she loved it. One day she’s going to outgrow it but the memories will still be there. I think that’s how I felt with your stuff.”

Outgrow it, huh. Outgrow it and replace it with something better. “It was nasty but you loved it?”

“That’s what she said.” 

Oh, you walked right into that one. “Harry—”

“I'm really fucking sorry,” he says, with an impish flash of teeth. “Anyway. No, it felt like something familiar that I outgrew. Something useless that I can't wear, Kim can't wear, could have fetched at least a couple of real at the thrift store, but the clothes—they were *formative.* Only difference is the memories aren't there.”

You look into the bottom of the bowl of soup, its former contents churning in your stomach. Might as well tell him. “They’re mine. They’re my clothes.”

He blinks. “Your… huh?” 

“Why do you think they fit me, Mullen?” The soup gives you the energy to sit up straighter. “Ever think about that?”

“Impulse purchases, I thought. I made a lot of those. But you’re right; this isn’t my style.” The grey sweater is stark and monochrome compared to the bird-of-paradise consumerist flashiness Harry chooses to adorn himself with. He gestures at the red afghan around your shoulders. “Neither is … this. And… I think I have a lot of your stuff, actually. How’d it get here?”

“How indeed.” You chuckle dryly. That’s the fucking question, ain’t it?

“There were two toothbrushes here.” He kneads a temple. “One of them was yours?”

“The blue one.” 

He looks at you with a guilty grimace. “Shit,” he says. “That’s the one I’ve been using.”

Life is a goddamn joke and the universe is inherently meaningless. You can’t stop the genuine laugh that erupts from your chest and you supposed you don’t have a reason to try, either. He laughs too; it’s gentle and roiling, shakes his shoulders. It feels good. Things feel good when he’s around, and it’s why he’ll be the death of you.

“So, uh. You stayed over a lot. Is that normal for cops or were we… “ 

“Were we what?”

“Y’know, like, uh. Uhm.”

“Fucking hell, Harry. Spit it out, this isn’t preschool.”

He gestures vaguely, looking to his own twisting fingers for salvation. It doesn’t come.

You sigh. “No, it wasn’t like *that,* thank god. My heater broke down a lot,” you lie. “Yours didn’t. That’s all.”

He takes a moment to gaze into your eyes. You can’t look away from the blue. “That’s not true.”

Fuck.

He continues. “Your heater does break down, but you wouldn’t come over because it’s cold. How long did it take to run here? It’s freezing out.”

No point in lying here. “Over half an hour.”

“Holy shit, Jean.”

“Yes. ‘Holy shit, Jean.’” Your lungs ache for a nicotine fix: anything to escape the trajectory of this conversation.

“Then why did you come?”

You close your eyes, tired, battered in body and soul. “...If you want me to leave, just fucking say so,” you sigh. You try to stand. Two hands push you down into the cushions. One brushes by your throat. A phantom bolt of lightning detonates, despite the lack of thunder outside. “Harry—” You choke on something immaterial.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he says. He notices your quickening breaths, glancing at his grip on you. A connection is made, then he lets go, as if burned. 

You’re trapped in your own body. Lightning still crackles bright and deafening and drowning you with each flash of light, reflecting off of flush lips, alcohol scent—

You slam the memory down — clarifying pain radiates from where you hit yourself in the thigh — and feel the pulpy mess of your heart and mind finally recognize that this isn’t two years ago. This isn’t him. This Harry isn’t your partner; he got a shiny new model several months ago. 

“Jean?” A fearful whisper from up front. You look up. His hands are poised over your quivering body, unsure of what to do. “Are you okay?”

You snort. “Obviously not, shitkid.” Fuck it. “You want to know why I came?.” You breathe deep, slowly, like it’s your last. Let it go. “I came here because I wanted to die. Paint one last lowlife’s brains on the wall.”

“Oh.” His expression is unreadable.

“I need you to make sure I don’t.” Say it fast, like a gust of hot wind, before your lips freeze up. “That’s all it comes down to.” 

He shrugs, but you know him too well to fall for the air of nonchalance. Underneath, he’s thinking, neurons firing, cogs turning. “I’m doing a pretty good job of it, aren’t I?” 

You snort. “Keeping me from dying? Technically. Keeping me from wanting to die? You suck shit. This conversation sucks shit. Let’s drop it.” 

Harry runs a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck. “If it makes you feel better, I get this way too.”

You laugh, each harsh cackle rattling your frame. By the end, you’re bent over yourself, clutching your stomach. You wipe away a tear. “You think, shitkid? I was your partner for five goddamn years, in case you *forgot.* Oh god, why didn’t *I* think of fucking off and forgetting everything and having a knight in shining armor cure my depression, huh?” A chuckle forces out of you. “Wasted so much goddamn money on meds when I should've been drinking myself into oblivion. Good fucking job, Harry. You solved it.” 

Diatribe over, you look away, bitterness draining out, regret for the outburst replacing it.

“That’s not fair.”

It’s funny, twistedly so, in a way only you appreciate, but you can’t laugh anymore. “Life’s not goddamn fair, shitkid.”

“No, asshole.” Slight anger alights on his face. A category of scars aches. “Kim helped, but I got better because *I* wanted to. *I’m* the one who quit drinking. *I’m* the one who quit speed. And you think just because now I’m off the bottle I don’t wanna die? I still want it.” He jerks a thumb at his chest. “I’m in the same boat as you, present situation included.”

You stare. “The hell does that mean?”

Harry pauses, choosing his next words. Hands that were gesturing furiously before falter in their blazing path, but determination burns through hesitancy. “I… It’s mostly in the middle of the night. I call Kim, since he has the car and all. Sometimes he stays over, sometimes we drive over to his place.” 

You’re gaping like a fucking idiot. God, fuck. “Still doing that, huh.” The words fall out of your mouth, unprompted, muted, an unsaid apology threaded between. Your jaw clicks shut, but it’s too late. The words have escaped. 

It’s the same habit, carved in whatever neural cytoarchitecture that wasn’t shredded by the alcohol. He used to call you, before, drunk and high out of his mind. And you used to call him. The two of you hurtled towards each other like magnets spinning through empty space.

“Still?” he asks. You don’t answer, letting the gears turn in his head. “Oh.”

You bury your head in your hands. “Fucking hell.” No doubt Kitsuragi does the same for Harry: drying his hair, tucking him in, cooking for him. Harry learned this behavior from him. Or maybe what the shitkid said was true. He got better because *he* wanted to — no, it’s divine intervention that he’s putting food in your body instead of offering half a bottle for half a benzo. 

It’s likely Kitsuragi has a bunch of Harry’s shit over at his place. The thought of them together clogs your mind.

“Jean.” What is there to say? What the fuck is there to fucking say? “How often do you have these nights?”

“Five times since Martinaise. Not including tonight.”

“Tonight must’ve been bad, for you to come here.”

You sigh. “...It was.” Suffocating silence drops between the two of you. His right index twitches, tapping at his side. 

“You could—” he begins. Considers something. “You could still call. I got a new phone.” You know. You tried calling, twice. He grabs a pen and piece of paper off the corner of the table and scribbles a number. “Here.” He holds it out to you.

You stare at the scrap of paper. What would happen, if you accepted? One day you’ll hold the phone to your ear and hear only static, because Harry’s fucked off to Kitsuragi’s place. He could’ve been gone tonight, and what would’ve happened then? “No, shitkid. Not goddamn interested.”

His expression falls. “But it gets cold. You can’t walk here every time.”

“There won’t be a next time.” You push the voices screaming in your head to the side. This is for the best. You’re not his world anymore, so he can’t be yours. “I’ll find another way to deal with it. I’ve done it before.”

“Jean, please—” You begin to arrange the pillows on the couch.

“Let me sleep, Harry. I’ll be out of your hair by morning.” You draw the blankets up. 

He’s silent beside you. You hear him stand and you prepare to hear him leave. Before you can submerge deeper into exhaustion, two arms encircle you. You feel furnace heat, sudden and blinding, press into your side. 

You try to speak but nothing comes out. He devastates you with his words, anyways, lips murmuring by your left ear: “I care about you, Jean.” Each vibration in his throat rumbles into your shoulder, sparking electric through each nerve.

“...Why?” You despise the tremor in your voice.

“I’m not sure. But I think you meant something to me, before — why else would I keep the clothes? — and even if not, you deserve something now.” He gently uses a single finger to guide your chin his way, glancing at your eyes and mouth to make sure you’re not having another panic attack. “I do care about you, though. Promise.” And with that, he cranes his chin up and plants his lips on your forehead.

You’re immobile, again. Harry wouldn’t— He couldn’t— But this isn’t him anymore. He draws back, cheerful smile on his face, as if nothing of note had just happened.

“Please call. I can write down Kim’s number. I’m sure he’d be willing to help.” So he figured out why you didn’t accept.

You close your eyes. Marvel at the warmth seeping into your skin, into your lungs. You can feel him study your face, the tenderness of his regard like radiant sunlight after rain. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, okay.” You crack open your eyes. “Now let me sleep, shitkid.”

“Alright.” He lets you go, but the warmth in your chest remains, a torch lit from a bonfire. “Again, call if you need anything.”

“Sure.” You lie down on the couch, settling into cushions you became accustomed to long ago. They shift and cradle your weight, as if welcoming back a friend. You suppress an urge to thank it; Harry’s the one who talks to inanimate objects.

He stands and goes over to the light switch. Looks back at you one last time, the lamp you helped him pick out years ago shining an orange halo behind him. “Goodnight, Jean,” and he flicks the lights off.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos, as always, are appreciated :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [we were near as stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266362) by [sybilius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius)




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